


(the world has somehow shifted)

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tangled AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: "I'm not going to hurt you," he says. "I let you put me in the cupboard, didn't I?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> TANGLED AU BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK NOT 
> 
> may write more of this universe later but i didn't want to make it into a whole ~thing so here we go

 

She thinks he might be handsome.

She's only mostly sure, because he's the only man besides Father that she's ever seen in person. She's seen pictures, of course, read descriptions of men and women of all kinds in her books. And since Father doesn't truly count as a man anyway, this one is the _first_.

Against his serenely unconscious face, his cheekbones look sharp as glass.

Probably just as dangerous.

Oh, right. Yes. He's a threat.

Using all the strength she can muster, Jemma heaves the man towards her large armoire, toeing the door open with one foot and shoving him inside for safekeeping. It takes a few tries to get him shoved fully in there, and her chameleon, Fitz, blinks at her warily. If he could talk, he'd certainly be telling her off.

Jemma doesn't much care at the moment. She can taste freedom.

Her peace is broken by Father's voice down below: "Jemma, let down your hair."

Not a request.

Jemma finds the end of her locks and lets it fall out the window, down towards the grass she's never touched at the bottom of their tower. She pulls, muscles straining to help Father up towards the window. She uses the time to formulate a plan.

"Good afternoon, Father," Jemma says as he steps into the windowsill. "You're back so soon."

"Are you disappointed you haven't more time to yourself?"

This, like most of the things he utters, is a test.

"Of course not. I'm just surprised, is all. You're not one to waste daylight."

"Just a quick stop today. There's more harvesting to be done."

Jemma suppresses a shudder at that word. Harvest. Father doesn't mean the kind of harvesting one performs on a farm in the countryside. Like her, Father is different. Special. Father must do strange, brutal things to survive.

Jemma tries her best not to think about it.

"Father," Jemma braces. "I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow."

Father's back is turned, but he's removed his cloak, and the tentacles on the back of his head clench in quick anger.

"We've discussed this, Jemma."

"I know," she says. "But—"

"No arguments, child."

But today there is an argument. Today, the fire she keeps tamed in the hearth of her chest is bursting forward.

"Father, there is no reason to keep me here!" Jemma shrieks suddenly, years of frustration coming to the fore. "I am as strong as ever. I can handle the outside world."

"You cannot conceal your powers like I can," he spits back. Father's face morphs several times in quick succession, an aged blonde woman with thin lips, a roguish farmhand, the shrunken head of a bright-eyed child; and back again.

Meanwhile, the largess of Jemma's hair is evidence enough. The source of her power is undeniable, and even more, it's flashy. It begs for attention.

Jemma's been told there's something wrong with that.

"If I'm as powerful as you say, why should I conceal it?" Jemma begs. "My power can help people. I could heal—"

"I said _no_ ," Father bellows, and it feels as if the whole tower shakes. "You will not talk back to me like this again."

Fury overtakes Jemma, tear ducts leaking without sadness.

Father finishes whatever business brought him back in silence, not even slamming cupboards or stomping like Jemma would. Instead, he takes her by the hair again and drops out of the window once more, leaving her behind to rot.

Deflation is tangible, even if it's only in her heart. But before her face can fully crumple, the door to the bureau creaks behind her. Jemma whirls, scrambling for the frying pan she'd used to knock the stranger out the first time.

But the man doesn't approach her. He doesn't seem innocent, but he also doesn't seem to be threatening her.

Still, Jemma clutches her weapon.

"That thing is your father?" The man asks, bewildered.

Jemma doesn't speak, too startled to open her mouth.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he follows up. "I let you put me in the cupboard, didn't I?"

Her brow knits, shoulders dropping a little. "I hit you over the head," she argues.

"It was a good hit, don't get me wrong," he concedes. "It's definitely going to bruise. But it wasn't hard enough to knock me out. I've been told I'm thick-headed," he adds.

He's rather charming, isn't he? This doesn't bode well.

"Why have you come for me?" Jemma asks gravely, trying to get to the point. "Who sent you?"

"Nobody sent me. I thought this place was abandoned," he said, looking around at the tall ceilings scrawled with drawings and equations. "Is someone after you?"

"If you thought it was abandoned, why did you climb all the way up?" she counters. 

"Needed somewhere to lay low for a while," he shrugs, trying to make it sound less incriminating than it is.

“Fantastic,” Jemma mutters. “I’ve caught a criminal.”

“It’s seems like you’re the one who’s been caught by a criminal.” And then he repeats himself: “Is that thing your father?”

Jemma hesitates. “He raised me.”

“Fair enough,” the man says, and he seems to understand in a darker way. “Now, are you going to try to hit me again if I leave?”

Something seizes inside of Jemma, gripping, choking. She’s too smart to let this go.

“Yes.”

He laughs in surprise. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I could fight off your… _weapon_.”

Jemma ignores him. She got the best of him once, she could do it again with a little quick thinking. “What’s your name?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Grant Ward.”

“Listen to me, Grand Ward,” she threatens. He smiles at this. “I will let you go, but you have to help me first.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t _let_ me do anything. You’re tenacious, but you’re not enough to stop me.”

“No?” she lilts. “Of course if you leave, it won’t take long to summon the public guards and put them back on your trail as you look for somewhere else to _lay low_.”

His smile turns false.

“Besides,” Jemma says. “You’re missing something.”

It takes him only two seconds to realize the pack he was carrying is no longer slung over his arm, nor is it anywhere within reach. Now his smile disappears entirely.

“Obviously you have very limited access to the outside world, so I don’t think you’re going to get me in trouble with the guards.” He saunters forward. Her knuckles go white. “And since you’re not going anywhere anytime soon, you have no use for my possessions. Might as well give them back and let me go on my way before I do something we both will regret.”

But the problem is, the heat he injects into that statement, the intimidation, is just that – injected. Forced. She doesn’t know much in the way of people, but Jemma can trust her instincts.

“I’d be happy to give it back,” she murmurs. He’s gotten close enough for his tall frame to block out the overhead lamp from view, haloing his silhouette. “As soon as you help me.”

His smile returns, and it’s harsher. His eyes flicker as he weighs his options, and then he nods. “Fine. What can I do for you, princess?”

“You’re going to break me out of here.”

He smirks. “Piece of cake.”  

“You’re also going to get me into the kingdom.”

He cocks his head, but: “Doable.”

“Then I’ll return your purse.”

“Deal,” he says, and he sticks out his hand.

She takes it very hesitantly.

“Two questions, before we start,” Ward says, as he starts to move.

“Alright,” she consents.

“What should I call you?”

Right. She pinks a little. “Jemma.”

“Nice to meet you, Jemma.”

He begins to shimmy out the window, so without thinking she tosses her cascade of golden hair over the hook and out the window for him to use.

“Second question,” he says after he watches it fall. “What’s with the hair?”

“Grant Ward,” Jemma sighs. “You wouldn’t understand if I told you.”

 


End file.
